Double, double, toil and trouble; Fire burn and cauldron bubble.
What! will the line stretch out to the crack of doom?
All the perfumes of Arabia will not sweeten this little hand.
Canst thou not minister to a mind diseased?
After life's fitful fever he sleeps well.
Macduff was from his mother's womb Untimely ripped.
Unsex me here, And fill me from the crown to the toe top full Of direst cruelty.
By the pricking of my thumbs Something wicked this way comes.
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